Pages

Perimeter Walk

It’s just before a quarter to seven in the morning; the
temperature is over 250 C and the sky is streaked with pink, purple
and orange clouds. It should be autumn,
but it’s still summer. Waking to a
temperature that exceeds the normal average maximum for the time of year is not
the best way to start the day. Tea may
sluice away some of the nights disturbance, but it does not make up for lost
sleep. The roads are quiet even for this time of the morning. Most people are still asleep in what passes
for the cool of the morning. I drive
past a few houses where people stand in their gardens and, shaking their heads,
look up the sky. Another week will have
to slip by before we see temperatures in the teens, before sleep is cool and
refreshing.

The flags on the Westgate Bridge hang limp and unmoving as
the sun burns away the cloud and sky turns from pale to bright. For me, it’s a
well-worn path to the east, towards Queenscliff, towards a day on the bay.

I read the road signs, formal and informal, homemade and
manufactured. Voices from the radio talk
about climate change and weather. People
phone in to complain about bias. Its 280
C at 7.30 am. I wonder if they
have noticed, or whether they are buried under todays Australian, that calls
for business as usual and supports the protestations of an English Lord who
(unfortunately) shares my name. I
concentrate on the road; and smile at the found poetry of the painted signs.

Clean fill,

Fresh fruit,

Horse Poo.

Raspberries,

Fresh Strawberries,

Lemons and Limes.

Park here for free,

Stop here for coffee,

Keep Left, Keep Right, Keep Going.

There are very few people in the car park at
Queenscliff. This select few, this band
of birders, are pulling on old shoes, battered hats and buff coloured
clothes. The birds they watch are always
better dressed than the watchers – even if the birds are in deep moult. The air smells of sun block, insect replant
and coffee. Wafts of bacon drift from
the harbour side cafes. It still feels
early and it feels hot. I look at my
bag and decide to take less food and more water.

The boat is sleek and pointy – comfortable seats and some
shade. A rushing tide and contrary wind
ruff up sharp waves in the Bay. We go
away from our destination to avoid the chop.
Wind and waves conspire to kick sprays of water over the edge of the
boat. If you want to look forward you
need to keep one eye shut. A few hats
are dislodged, a few people dampened. We
swing off our distancing tack and head for Mud Islands, over water less than
one meter deep. It’s strange to feel all
at sea, but know you could jump overboard and still stand with you head above
water. If there was ever an experience
to show how much difference a change in sea level would cause it has to be
this. Australia is old enough for people
to have watched as these shallows flooded grasslands and turned the land to
sea. Who knows if early Australians had
the same mental myth of climate permanence as we do (did?), but to watch the
land became the sea, the solid become fluid, must have cut away at what they knew to be true.

The islands are not that impressive from the sea – in fact
they are almost invisible. They don’t
have the height to break the skyline of the shore and so merge into the
background. It’s only when you wade
ashore – through ankle deep water – that they take on the form of real
islands. The highest point on the island
becomes you own head and from that vantage point you can look down to sea, land
and now a distant horizon. And, despite
the islands name, a lack of mud.

The beaches are squint-eyed bright under the cloudless
sky. A mixture of white sand and shells
brings a sense of tropicalilty to these normally cooler beaches. Welcome swallows flash over the sand, and
groups seems to hover over the clumps of low plants that stud the upper beach. Once you touch a plant its not hard to see
why – swarms of small blue butterflies spring from the vegetation when ever it
moves. A wind shock or a footstep
releases them and the swallows dive and dine.
Once the butterflies land again they almost disappear, their underwings
a counterfeit of a leaf or a dried stem.

The point of arrival is unremarkable except for two bright
orange buoys floating just off shore that mark both the beginning and end of a
circular walk. The choice of pale
clothes and old shoes is validated as soon as we start to walk. The sun above and the reflections from below
are harshly bright. It feels good to
wade through the water when needed, and it happens frequently enough for you
feet never to gain that almost dry feeling that is far more annoying that
simple wet feet. A few people change
shoes constantly between a dry pair and a wet pair. These people balance on one leg and wobble in
the wind. The waders on the rocks seem
to have the one legged standing routine better organised than the people. I am reminded of and adapt the words of my
brother: wet feet are only a problem if
you assume you can keep them dry in the first place.

Water bottles are hidden in the bushes, not for fear of
thievery, but to gain some shade and the promise (or hope) of cool water on our
return to this point later in the day. We start to walk around the island –
clockwise or so it seems from our starting point. White gulls hang over the white beach, white
waders – stilts – fly low over the gentle wave breaks just off shore. Every thing is bright and clear. The group of island walkers pick up bags and
rucksacks, pull on straps and open and shut Velcro fasteners. Fine-tuning complete we walk on.

At what feels like a corner on a circle a mixed flock of
waders gather to roost. Beak to the
wind, tail feathers gently flickering they wait for the turning of the
tide. Long beaks, medium beaks, long
legs short legs. Mud probers, stone
flickers. Large birds, tiny birds. As we slide slowly into an autumn that should
already be here, a Red Knot is putting on its spring clothes. Getting ready for a long flight north and a breeding
party on arrival. Most of the others of
his kind are still dressed in the dull functionality of their work
clothes. No party suit for them
yet. A few Sharp-tailed sandpipers –
sharpies - are starting to get dressed up, as are a few Godwit. It seems a shame that they put on their showy
breeding finery just to leave, and return in the drab colours of camouflage and
safety. I settle at the back of the walking group and sit down. Moving my tripod a metre at a time, I bum-shuffle
down the beach, edging closer to the birds.
I end up with my feet in the water, a very wet bum and pictures I am
pleased with. That’s a fair trade.

Overhead the small white birds are not gulls. They distract me from the waders as they
land, just a little out of lens range, on an open sand bar. They are terns, but the question becomes what
sort? They are very small, with pale
legs and dark bills. Fairy Tern? Little Tern?
Or the as yet undescribed hybrid The Tiny Tern! As ever these birds seem to have a
combination of the features of both birds.
And it does not help that I can see (or think I can see!) both species
in the air over my head. The ID of this
bird becomes a Bridge Too Far. I plan to
consult my photographs when I get home in the hope of finding an answer –
optimism never goes amiss.

The prospect of lunch hangs heavy in the air as we walk
along a creek edge. Pushing into the
middle of the island, this creek splits the mud in two, hence the plural name –
Mud Islands, rather than Mud Island. Sitting
on the edge of a salt marsh, rich with halophyte Salicornia, Sausage shaped bulbous plants, ripe for the
bursting by little fingers, we are
overflown by pelicans and ibis. Egrets
stab at fleeting targets and Buff Banded rails do a passable impression of
chickens. I nibble on an apple, doing a
passable impression of a rodent. The
lunch ground smells of coffee, cheese sandwiches and the unmistakable aroma of
warm chocolate.

Soft mud, the first we have found, oozes over the top of my
shoes as we wade across the creek.
Dozens of small fish, the revealed target of the egret’s beak, flick
away from my churning feet. The water is
warm and clear. Life abounds. Bigger fish break through the surface and a
few crabs sidestep the issue in holes and under rocks. Life is abundant as we enter a graveyard.

It the proper season the Islands are home to a colony of
pelicans. The birds raise their
graceless chicks on nests of sun-bleached sticks, edged with sea cast
weed. But now the colony belongs to the
dead. Broken birds lie is slight,
fractured disarray. Desiccated beyond putrefaction,
there no smell beyond that of salt and dust dry sand. They look like feather rags and bones. Some died in the nest where there bones join
the sticks and their feathers flicker, catching the breeze, a memory of the
life potion that failed. Some died under bushes, maybe seeking protection from
the afternoon sun, maybe hoping for some hint of warmth and shelter on a chill
night. The economy of over production,
safety in numbers, selection in action.
The weak, the failing or badly built, abandoned by genetics. The
unfortunate, abandoned by chance. But
all left behind by the ones who did not die. Those who passed the test and remain part of
the DNA river that flows, generation to generation, away from the first cells,
away from the well spring of life, branching as new species form. It’s a site filled with brutal honesty, a
clear lesson about the nature of the real.
To see such things is to be reminded of our place in the world.

We walk till we find the paired orange buoys, the hidden
drink bottles and a boat to take us home.

Hari OMsigh, wonderful Stewart; I was there with you and could almost smell the salt. This is making me a tad homesick - but don't envy you the incredible weather you've had. Peculiar that the North end is enduring the longest cold and snow spell by comparison.

Your observations re 'permanence' and our place within it are valid and insightful.

What a beautiful place to wander around and snap photos! I visited a pelican colony in Florida a few years ago and got some once-in-a-lifetime photos there. Pelicans are beautiful creatures. Heck - all birds are!

Well, I quite enjoyed the heat of the early morning and the "highway haiku" of signs.The boat ride was refreshing with the salt spray hitting my face.The time spent photographing the birds expired all too quickly.I am not ready to board the boat to leave Mud Islands yet.

I read this a while ago on my IPAD, but it's hard for me to comment using it..just remembered to come by again!

I am not a fan of mud, but your story/essay made me think I'd enjoy this place. Wet feet are OK if it's not cold.

I love pelicans, but they seem sort of as if they were put together by a committee...just a little quirky and a little off (I like quirky though!)...anyway, but the ones that don't quite make the survival of the fittest must really be off. (But then again, I don't really know what's on and what's off for a pelican of course).

It's hard not to amorthophize (and harder yet to spell that word, I know that's wrong.)